Part 15

Jessica LaKaison looked down at the sleeping face of Peter Caine and almost forgot that she hated him. He seemed so innocent, so childlike in his slumber. The headphones played a message, over and over, into his highly receptive subconscious. The combination of drugs and hypnosis was working well. He was beginning to respond to the keyword. . . Dostoevsky--the author of Crime and Punishment. How fitting that he should turn to putty in her hands with the utterance of that one name, a name that summed her whole career up. She had served as counselor and confessor to both police and their prey for nearly seven years. It amused her that she could not decide which she liked better. Jessica respected the policemen that risked their lives for an ungrateful society, but she had loved a criminal once, deeply. They had been two old souls who were inexplicably bound together for eternity. The man lying asleep on her couch was the reason that her lover no longer visited her arms or her bed.

Jessica glanced at her watch, noting that the indoctrination portion of the session was almost over. Next came the part she had started out hating, but had soon come anticipate. Her initial visit with Peter Caine revealed something she knew she could use. He felt a strong sense of honor, and with it deep commitment. Though he had a long string of lovers, he had not "loved ‘em and left ‘em." Each of the women in his life had been driven away by his insecurities or reckless lifestyle. His commitment to these women was absolute. It didn’t matter how badly they had hurt him upon their leaving, he would give his life for any one of them if they asked. Jessica smiled as the line of questioning revealed his deep loyalty. Peter would never turn on someone he had taken as a lover. He would defend them to the death, or against his fellow policemen. . . and through the wonders of modern pharmacology and hypnotic suggestion, Jessica LaKaison became Peter Caine’s lover.

Their first time together had been awkward. Dr. LaKaison was tense, hating the thought of his hands touching her, his lips pressed against hers. All the while, though, she told herself that it was all part of the plan, a necessary sacrifice. She hadn’t expected his ways to be so gentle, his lovemaking to be so tender. He responded to her as if she were the only woman he had ever loved or would ever love. It made her almost regret what she was doing to the guilt-ridden cop. . . almost.

*Remember Charlie.* she commanded herself each time she found herself falling under Peter Caine’s spell. *Remember the man you loved more than life itself. Think about the horror of being hunted down like an animal, with no place to hide. Feel what it was like for him to be sent to that horrible place where he was beaten and terrorized. See the despair in your lover’s eyes as he begged to be set free, over and over. Cry once more over the body in the morgue, with the deep gashes down each forearm from elbow to wrist, laying open the veins.* It was a mantra she found herself repeating more and more after each "session" with the pliable Peter Caine.

Jessica convinced herself that the warm feeling she got from Peter was just really great sex. He was nothing more than one of the men she picked up in the bar and used for the night. To him, she was an erotic dream, a lover that touched him only when he was in the dark regions of his subconscious. He had, however, begun to treat her with less hostility lately. The deeply implanted suggestions not to remember kept her from even his most private conscious thoughts. She had made certain that the memory block was very firmly in place before she had embarked on the last step to make Peter’s soul her own.

A faint beeping of her watch alarm brought Jessica out of her daydream and back to the present. It was time.

"Peter, make love to me," she commanded in the same sultry voice she used to give the "Dostoevsky" key word. Peter’s brilliant hazel eyes opened, love and desire shining from their depths. He smiled and sat up, removing the headphones. Without saying a word, the detective reached out a gentle hand and ran two fingers softly along her skin, outlining her face from temple to chin. He pulled her closer, not roughly, but tenderly. She found herself responding to his kiss on her neck, leaning into him, breathing the scent of him in deeply.

She didn’t hate this part of his indoctrination anymore.

****

Jessica smiled like a caviar-fed cat. Tugging the last of her clothing firmly in place, she picked up the phone and pressed one of the speed dial buttons.

"He’s in the shower," she said tersely and hung up the phone.

Less than five minutes later the tall man who had wielded the syringe in her office during Peter’s second visit stepped into her inner sanctum. He was well dressed and extremely handsome.

*If one works with criminals,* Jessica thought * they can at least be attractive criminals.*

"Did you leave the food in his apartment last night?" she asked.

"Yeah. I even ate two pieces so he wouldn’t get too suspicious."

"Good. It would not do to have Detective Caine’s lack of appetite require a visit to a medical doctor. It might be *inconvenient.*" the brunette smiled.

"Doc why don’t you just kill this guy instead of playing with him like this?" the man blurted out suddenly. He glanced at the door to her private bath where the white cop was showering. It gave him the shivers to think of the mind games the shrink was playing with the detective. Killing the cop’s friends, keeping him drugged. . . sleeping with him. . . for what?

The sound of the psychiatrist’s laughter was the last thing that he expected. He had felt the heat of her fury on more than one occasion. . . but the doctor had gotten him off on a murder rap, so he owed her. . . big time. Jaisen Washington paid his debts, even to some kinky shrink who was torturing a cop. He’d done worse, much worse.

"Because, my dear Jaisen, I want him to suffer just like my Charlie suffered. I want to drive him to the depths of despair and isolate him until he has no one to turn to. His confidential file from the department says that he has abandonment issues. I want him to feel abandoned by everyone he loves and trusts. I want him to hurt so bad that he will do anything to end the pain . . . or I may let him believe that taking his own life is the only way that he can save his friends and their families. There are so many ways to go. I’m not ready to choose just yet. Understand this, my dear Jaisen,"she said, stroking his face lovingly. "Peter Caine is going to die by his own hand, blood dripping from the veins that he opened himself, just like Charlie. If any other harm comes to him, from anyone, I will see that person in Hell."

The smile never left her face, but her eyes no longer showed mirth, only rage, cold and deadly.

"Now take him home."

***

As he had for the last several nights, Jaisen Washington drove Peter home in his own car. He didn’t like the thought of being caught retrieving the beautiful Stealth from the precinct parking lot, but that’s what the doctor wanted. Peter appeared normal but was, as Jessica LaKaisen said, "a little too out-of-it to deal with city traffic."

"God forbid you should get killed in a car wreck before she’s had a chance to thoroughly shred you," Jaisen commented to the unaware Peter in the car. The white cop sat in the passenger’s seat, staring out the window. He never talked on their trips home, never acknowledged Jaisen’s presence in any way.

"Damn, this is spooky. You sit there like some sort of . . . I don’t know what. . . acting as natural as Hell, and not hearing a damn word I say. It’s like having a deaf guy in the car with me, or like I’m a ghost and you can’t see me." The handsome black man smiled. "I sure the Hell am glad that Doc has the Jones for you and not me. You can’t be having a lot of fun these last few days." Jaisen continued the one sided conversation with Peter all of the way back to the apartment. He gave the keyword command then instructed Peter to go to his apartment and wait while Jaisen parked the car.

Washington parked the Stealth in Peter’s usual slot. He knew where it was because the Doc had insisted that he tail Peter for a couple of weeks before she initiated her plan. She wanted to know his habits, his hangouts, his friends. The brunette shrink had insisted that Jaisen get long-lens photos of him and whoever he was with for the entire two weeks. ‘Burn a lot of film on this man, Jaisen. I want to have more pictures of him than there are of Elvis.’ She was still insisting that he trail and photograph the cop, even now, after "the plan" was in action.

Jaisen walked into the apartment to find Peter Caine standing in his living room, just as he had been instructed to do. A smile touched his lips. With the stuff that the doctor had pumped into this guy, he was incapable of an original thought. Once directed, he acted normal, but he wouldn’t even drink if he was dying of thirst unless someone told him to. That is why he had to take Peter home each night, tell him to go to bed, and give the last suggestions. He’d even had to tell Peter to wake up hungry and eat the night before.

"Dostoevsky." Jaisen spoke the word slowly. It had taken a lot of practice not to stumble over the Russian author’s name. Doc was right. It wasn’t a word that was ever likely to come up in casual conversation.

"Peter, I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say," he said soothingly and very slowly, as if he were talking to a very young child. He laughed a moment before going on. Jaisen had always wanted a pet as a child. Right now he could consider Peter a well-mannered dog. "You will remember nothing of this conversation or me being here. . . The last thing that you will remember is going to Dr. LaKaisen’s office tonight. . . If anyone asks, the session went fine. . . You will not tell anyone what goes on in your sessions, it’s confidential. . . Dr. LaKaisen is your lover. . . You would never tell anyone else what you lover and you talk about. . .When the beep sounds, you will fall into a normal sleep, and wake up before your alarm goes off in the morning. . .Everything will be normal. . . Now, . . . go in the bedroom, . . . strip, . . . go to bed, . . . and sleep."

Peter nodded as if he had just been given the plans for a drug bust and proceeded to the bedroom. Moments later the steady rhythm of his breathing told Jaisen that the young cop was sleeping the sleep of the drugged. He walked into the room and reached behind the headboard. Hidden there was a cheap digital watch. Making sure that the alarm was set for 1 a.m. and that the watch was functioning, Jaisen returned it to its original hiding place. He watched the cop, relaxed and vulnerable in sleep, making sure that he was indeed settled. Done for the night.

****

Jaisen left the apartment, making sure to check the streets before he exited. The Doctor said that he needed to look out for a man that wore green-lensed glasses both day and night. She said that he was very dangerous. The dark-skinned man shook his head and started for the car he had stashed nearby earlier in the day. He’d seen the guy that she was talking about. He and Peter had spent a lot of time together, both before and after "the plan." The man in question was lost in a fashion time warp. His suit was straight out of the Kennedy era, but somehow Jaisen didn’t think that the guy really cared. From the way he moved and handled himself, he probably *was* very dangerous. He’d seen the type before. Doc sure did know a lot of weird people. . . sunglasses at night? . . . the guy was probably another of the paroled looneys that she controlled. A sardonic smile came to the man’s lips. *I should know,* he thought. *She gets me off a murder wrap last year then has me snuff some guy a week ago. I guess *I* qualify as one of her dangerous looneys.*

[end part 15]

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Part 16

Peter walked into the bullpen the next morning and knew immediately that something was very wrong. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching. There was something else there. . . fear?

*Stop it, Caine, you’re just being paranoid,* he told himself. He felt his coworkers part like the Red Sea as he drew near. They looked away as he tried to make eye contact. The room became uncomfortably silent the moment he entered.

"What the Hell is going on?" he asked Jody when he arrived at her desk. Her eyes grew large as she looked up from her files and saw Peter standing nearby.

*Oh my God, * she thought. *He doesn’t know.* Her mind raced, trying to formulate a way to tell the man she loved more than life of the latest turn of events. She was saved by Captain Simms.

"Detective Caine, I need to see you in private." Her usual commanding tone was absent, making her sound almost apologetic. Peter frowned, then followed her into the office. He shook his head as she gestured toward a seat. The blonde Captain closed the door and took a deep breath before facing Caine.

"There’s been another one," she said simply.

***

Peter sank into the chair that he had turned down only moments earlier. He looked down at the floor, unable to meet the Captain’s unwavering gaze. He knew that she was evaluating him, judging his fitness to continue with work. One word from her, one report, and he was "on the beach," sitting at home counting dots in the acoustic tiles while the investigation went on without him. He had to not let her see how this affected him.

"Who?," he asked, cursing himself for his shaky voice.

"Patti Cochran’s sister, Jennifer," Karen Simms answered succinctly.

"Patti, the night clerk?" Peter began a barrage of questions, suddenly all business. "Jennifer and Patti were roommates, was the perp trying for her? How was she killed? How do you know it was him and not a copycat?"

"Peter," the Captain stopped his rambling with a single word. "Jennifer Cochran was stunned with a taser of some sort, then beaten to death with a blunt object. It was a very nasty death. There was a number ‘3’ painted on the wall in the victim’s blood, and a note. You know we haven’t released any of the details of the murders, especially the part about "the lambs shall suffer. . ." There haven’t been any leaks, either, or Sandra Mason would be in the bottom left hand drawer of your desk about now. We don’t know what we are dealing with here, Peter. Forensics seems to think that the killings are the work of several people, but the numbers suggest a single killer. . . and then there is the matter of the messages he is leaving. "

Then, more gently, she went on. "The note was a little longer this time."

Peter took the offered zip lock evidence bag with a blood-stained sheet of paper inside. The message was computer-generated, probably on a laser printer because the blood hadn’t caused the ink to run. The cop part of Peter took all of these things into consideration while the human part of him recoiled at the brownish black marks on the paper. He knew that blood didn’t remain red for very long once it was outside the body.

"The lambs shall suffer for the sins of the shepherd," Peter read aloud. " If the guardian of the flock is not vigilant or loses focus when the hungry wolf comes calling, who shall become the tasty meal-- the neglectful shepherd or the tender lamb? Peter, the ones you care for and they ones they care about belong to me. My appetite for fresh blood gets stronger by the hour. . . and you can’t watch them all. "

"That’s not all." Karen spoke apologetically, then handed Peter a stack of 5 x 7 photos that must have numbered in the scores. "These were there as well, scattered throughout the room."

Peter leafed through the pictures, one by one, studying each image as if it were the key to solving the mysteries of Life. Frame after frame he saw himself. . . with friends . . . with his foster family. . . with coworkers. Near the bottom was a shot of Peter and Patti Cochran. He was handing her a cup of gourmet coffee just outside the station house. The espresso cart stood in the background. He remembered that moment.

flashback >>

"So, Peter," Patti smiled her best smile. There was a hint of tease in her voice. "Are you going to buy me a cup of cappuccino for my birthday? You keep promising me."

"Is today your birthday, Patti?" Peter kidded back. He was well aware of her near obsession with him, but played it light and cool with her. She was a great kid, there was no reason to hurt her or be rude to her.

"Yesterday was, but it was your day off," she ‘accidentally’ brushed against him, trailing a hand down his arm as she did.

"Well, then by all means, let’s celebrate it right today," Peter said with a smile of his own.

<

Stapled to the photo of Peter and Patti was a picture of Patti and her sister, Jennifer. In the same kind of red marker ink that had been present at Billy’s murder and at Tom Johnson’s , Patti’s face was circled in the photo of the two, and Jennifer’s had a large red ‘X’ across it.

"These must be his potential targets then," Peter thought out loud as he scanned the pictures for the tenth time. "There must be fifty people here. There has to be a picture of damn near everyone in the station, plus pictures of anyone I spoke to in the last two weeks. Shit, there’s even a picture of me and the checkout girl at the MinitShop down the street from my place. This nut case has been stalking me for weeks."

A shiver ran through Peter Caine. He had felt eyes on him for several weeks, but had brushed it off as lack of sleep and stress. There was the proof that he had been correct right in front of him in brilliant color. Worse yet, *he* had been watching everyone that the cop had come in contact with. No one was safe. It didn’t matter how they were connected to Peter, it only mattered that they had spoken to him.

Peter felt his cheeks flush bright red with shame and guilt. He had put all of these people at risk. Just by speaking with him or interacting with him in anyway had made them a target. No wonder his coworkers had stared at him. He could get them killed, or worse, get their families or loved ones killed.

"How the Hell do I stop this maniac from killing everyone I talk to, Captain? I can’t live with these people’s deaths on my hands. Why doesn’t he just come after me?"

"Peter, it’s not on your hands. You’re the victim here." Karen Simms was concerned. The homicide cop was a ticking time bomb sitting in her office. If she didn’t do something. . . and quickly. . . he would implode. "I want you to turn all of your cases over to T.J. and Skalaney."

Peter started to protest, but Captain Simms cut him off before he could get even a word out. "This killer is obviously playing for an audience of one. . . you, Detective Caine. As long as you are out there, on the streets, he knows that he has his audience. By pulling you out off the streets we remove his reason to perform, or at very least, shake him up a bit. We will have a better chance of nailing this guy, Peter."

"So, where the Hell am I supposed to go and what am I supposed to do? He knows where I live. . . some of those pictures were taken just outside of my apartment building. If I sit at home and have pizza delivered, this nut case will whack the delivery man. If I go somewhere to shop, the checkout girl gets hit, or her kid. No one that has any contact with me is safe. I am a walking talking death sentence. Just by being in this office, I am putting you. . . *and your son*. . . at risk."

"You let me worry about that, Detective Caine. For now, I want you to get those cases handed off. I need your desk cleared of all pending investigations in two hours tops. Now get to work, Detective. I will have the rest of the details worked out by then."

Peter kept his head down leaving the Captain’s office. He didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone. It might get them targeted. He had never felt so truly alone in his life, not even at the orphanage when he believed that his father was dead. The hollow spot in his heart echoed with unvoiced sobs.

[end part 16]

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